Текст книги "Ten Tiny Breaths"
Автор книги: K. A. Tucker
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
Chapter Eleven
I wake up to silver curtains and an early dawn sky peeking in. I’m in Storm’s bed, still wearing my dress. Rolling over, I find Trent laying on his back, bare-chested and in boxers, sound asleep. One arm is tossed over his head while the other rests across his torso. I guess I fell asleep on him last night and he carried me in here.
There’s just enough light that I can study Trent’s body unabashed and see that it is as gorgeous as I expected. It’s long and muscular and flawless, with just a thin line of dark hair trailing down a sculpted abdomen. A tiny silver line along his collar bone catches my eye. It’s so faint and narrow that I never saw it before. Peering closer, I look for stitch marks to identify it as a surgical scar, but I don’t see any.
“See something you like?” Trent’s low teasing voice startles me and I jump. Grinning, I look up to see a sexy, crooked smile. His mood has switched back to playful.
“Not really,” I murmur, but my cheeks flush, giving me away.
His hand cups my face. “You blush a lot. I’d never have taken you for the blushing kind.” After a pause, he offers, “go ahead. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
I feel my eyebrow arch. “Carte blanche?”
His other arm stretches back to nestle under his head. “Like I said …”
I decide that Trent really doesn’t get the meaning of taking it slow, but I’m not going to argue. “Okay.” An idea strikes me. Curiosity, actually. “Roll over.”
His eyes narrow slightly, but he obliges, smoothly flipping over so I can admire the ripples in his back, his broad strong shoulder, and the span of script that stretches from blade to blade.
My finger trails it softly, spiking goose bumps across his skin. “What does it mean?”
He starts to answer, but then he pauses, like he’s hesitant about telling me. That makes me want to know a hundred times more. I wait quietly, tracing it back and forth with my fingernail. “Ignoscentia. It’s Latin,” he finally whispers.
“What does it mean?”
“Why do you have five ravens on your leg?” he throws back at me, a rare hint of annoyance in his tone.
Dammit. Of course he’d ask that. I’d do the same if I were him. I bite my bottom lip as I weigh my options. Do I shut him down again or do I give him a bit to get a bit? My interest in Trent outweighs my need to keep everything hidden.
“They’re for all the important people in my life who I’ve lost,” I finally whisper, hoping to God he doesn’t ask me to name them. I don’t want to name the one that represents me.
I hear his sharp intake of breath. “Forgiveness.”
“What?” That word hits me like a punch to the chest. Just the sound of it—so impossible—leaves me nauseous. How many times had the counselors pushed me to forgive those guys for killing my family?
“My ink. That’s what it says.”
“Oh.” I exhale slowly, my fists balling up to stop my hands from trembling. “Why do you have that on your back?”
Trent rolls over and spends a long moment gazing at me with a grim mask, eyes full of grief. When he answers, his voice has turned husky. “Because forgiveness has the power to heal.”
If only that were true, Trent. I struggle hard to keep from frowning. I wonder how different our pasts must be for him to have a tattoo promoting forgiveness when I’m wearing one symbolizing the very reason why I can’t forgive.
There’s another long pause and then Trent’s sly grin is back, his arms nestling his head again. “Clock’s ticking here …”
I shake the seriousness away. Propping myself up onto my knees to get a better view, my eyes drift over his lips, his jaw line, his Adam’s apple. They roll leisurely down his chest and I make a point of leaning in and parting my lips near his nipple. I hear his breath hitch, and I’m sure he can feel my breath against his skin. I pull back as I continue further down, checking once to see if he’s watching me. He sure is.
A nervous twinge stirs in my stomach and I focus on the feeling for a second to realize that I adore it. It makes me feel alive. And I decide I want more than just a twinge so I push it, sending it into overdrive as I reach up and skim the elastic band of Trent’s briefs with my index finger. It’s not hard to see that he’s aroused. I curl my finger underneath the elastic band …
And find myself on my back in a split second, with both my arms over my head, my wrists pinned beneath one of Trent’s strong hands. He’s hovering over me, holding all of his weight up by that one arm, grinning. “My turn.”
“I’m not done yet,” I fake pout.
He smirks. “Tell you what, if you can last five minutes with the same level of scrutiny—without moving at all—I’ll let you finish.”
I make a tsking sound but inside I’m screaming. “Five minutes. Easy.”
Trent cocks his head, his arched brow telling me he can see through my bullish exterior to the melting pile of goo beneath. “You think you can handle it?”
“Can you?” I ask, twisting my mouth to fight the stupid nervous grin ready to expose itself. Just those heated blue eyes boring into my face is enough to unravel me. “What if I lose?” I realize this might work to my advantage either way.
Somber eyes flash and I sense the shift in the atmosphere. “If you lose, you agree to talk to someone about the accident.”
Sexual blackmail. That’s what Trent has up his sleeve. He’s breaking his going slow rule in hopes of making me talk. My teeth grind in response. No way in hell I’m agreeing to this. “You’re a natural at ruining the mood,” I force out, squirming beneath him.
But he grips me tightly. He leans forward, his lips grazing mine as he begs, “Please, Kacey?”
I close my eyes, trying not to let that gorgeous face glamour me. Too late. “Only if I lose, right?”
“Right,” he whispers.
My competitive side answers for me before I can think this through. “Fair enough.” I. Will. Not. Lose.
I see the wide grin stretch across Trent’s beautiful face and my body tenses up. “You’re going to play fair right?”
“Yes. One hundred percent fair.” There’s a teasing darkness in his stare, and I realize I’m in trouble. I watch as he sits back on his haunches, towering over me on the bed, those blue eyes leaving my face to drift over the length of my body, in no obvious rush. “This isn’t fair yet,” he murmurs. Leaning forward, two hands settle on the edges of my dress on my shoulder. He pushes down.
I gasp as my dress—a stretchy tunic style—slides off with a little bit of tugging on Trent’s part to get it out from under me. Trent’s thumb runs along the scar on my shoulder as his hands move down the length of my body, taking my dress with him. I’m left in nothing but my strapless bra and a thong. I hold my breath as Trent soaks up every square inch of my body—every curve, every detail.
He leans forward, his hand sliding beneath my back. “Still not quite fair.” I feel his fingers play with my bra hook and I suck in a gasp. He wouldn’t. The supporting tension in my bra gives way as Trent unhooks it. When his hand moves away, it comes with all covering of my breasts. “There. That’s fair.”
I. Will. Not. Lose.
I’m determined not to move, even as I lay all but bared to Trent’s prying eyes and evil smirk. I’m mulish enough to believe I can do it too. But then Trent leans forward, his mouth only inches from my breasts as I had done to him, and I’m fighting tooth and nail against the urge to squirm. I gasp as his breath coasts over my skin and my nipples instantly harden. When he peers up at my face, I have to close my eyes. I can’t handle the look in his. It’s full of heat and desire and intentions. He chuckles softly as his attention shifts further down. Cool air skates down my abdomen. “You have an incredible body, Kacey. Mind-boggling.”
I make an unintelligible sound of acknowledgement.
“I mean, I could just stare at it. And touch it. All day long.” I don’t know what it is about Trent right now—his smooth voice, his actions, his proximity to my body– but desire is tearing through my will power and congregating in my lower abdomen, planning an insurgence.
And he hasn’t even touched me.
I peek through one eye to see the tops of Trent’s shoulders, straining with muscle as he shifts further down, stopping below my belly button. I struggle to see the clock. Another three minutes. I can last three minutes. I can … I can … Trent’s index finger runs along the front of my panties just as I had done to him and I let out a soft moan before I can stop myself. Looking down, I see him watching me now, biting his bottom lip, his arrogant smirk gone.
His eyes stay locked on mine as his index finger curls under the elastic band and begins to slide down.
Like a violent wave crashing into me, I come completely undone. Swirls of haze and light fill my vision and I’m floating on seven layers of clouds, my muscles gone from rigid as a pole to pliable putty, and I don't ever want to lose this high.
With deep ragged pants, I faintly notice Trent hovering above me again a moment later. Hot lips touch my collar bone as he grazes it.
“You lose,” he whispers in my ear with a soft chuckle. Then he’s off the bed and pulling his jeans on. “Tanner’s outside.”
“No I didn’t.” I mumble as an afterthought, breathless. How the hell can he call that losing?
***
“You okay here alone?” Trent whispers as I sip a glass of orange juice and watch the sweaty man work on the door. When I raise an eyebrow, he chuckles. “Of course you are. I forgot you kicked my ass.”
“A bag of sand kicked your ass, remember? Where you off to?”
His hand touches the small of my back and he presses me against his body as he whispers in my ear. “Cold shower.” Shivers run down my spine and I’m ready to drag him back into Storm’s room, but he makes a beeline out of the apartment before I can get my claws into him.
“Who lost, again?” I call out in a high-pitched voice, smiling.
I quietly watch Sweaty Door Guy work as I read through a magazine, still glowing from the morning with Trent; enough that this guy’s hairy ass crack peeking out from loose faded blue jeans doesn’t faze me. Livie has staggered through, half asleep and on her way to school. When I suggest she skip the day, she looks at me like I suggested she marries the repair man. Livie doesn’t miss school for anything.
I’m reading an article on Ten Ways to Say You’re Sorry without Saying the Word when Storm’s soft voice calls out, “Can I please get by?”
Sweaty Door Guy cranes his neck, sees Storm, and fumbles with his hammer as he clears a path for her curvy frame. She stalks through, matching my smile, two tall Starbucks in her hands. “Do I need to change my sheets?” She winks.
“Ohmigod, Storm!” Fire burns my face as I see Sweaty Door Guy eyes widen. Storm can be inappropriate sometimes after all. I quickly change the topic. “How’s Mia?”
The reminder of last night dashes her humor and I regret asking. “She’ll be fine. I just hope she doesn’t remember any of it. She doesn’t need to remember her father like that.”
“What’s going to happen to him?”
“Well, apparently he broke parole. That added to the ‘break and enter’ should give him at least five years in prison. That’s what Dan thinks, anyway. I hope he’ll clean himself up by then.” She takes a long draw of her coffee and I notice her hand shaking. She’s still rattled by it all. Rightfully so. If I pull my head out of this distractive Trent sex cloud I’m stuck in, last night is still deep under my skin.
“I swear, I wasn’t sure Nate wasn’t going to throw the cops out of the way and rip his head off.” Storm adds and I nod in agreement.
There’s a long pause. “So … Dan, huh?”
Storm blushes. “I was up early. I couldn’t sleep so I brought him a coffee. Needed to thank him for everything. He’s nice.”
“A coffee? That’s all?” My brow arches.
“Of course that’s all. What do you think I’m going to do? Give the guy a blow job outside my apartment door?”
A harsh coughing erupts behind us. Sweaty Door Guy, covering up a gasp.
It’s Storm’s turn to flush, and I smile with satisfaction. Clearly she forgot we had an audience. “Are you saying you’re not interested?”
“No, I didn’t say that, but …” she toys with the lid of her cup.
“But what?”
“Excuse me,” Dan’s voice interrupts us and we both jump.
“Speak of the devil,” I murmur, covering my smile with another sip of coffee. Storm’s face has turned purple. I know what she’s thinking. She’s wondering how long he’s been listening.
Dan steps over the remnant door frame. “Sorry to bother you again.”
“No bother,” I chirp, grinning.
He nods appreciatively and I’m sure I see a faint blush creep into his cheeks. “Just wanted to let you know that I got that safety order to your landlord. The gates should be fixed shortly.”
Storm’s eyes widen. “Already?”
He grins. “I know a guy who knows a guy, who knows a guy.”
“Thank you so much, Officer Dan,” she says and I’m hit with a weird visual of them in a sex scene with her addressing him in the exact same way. I give my head a shake. Too many hours at the club.
They stare at each other for an awkward length of time, until Dan scratches the back of his head, his cheeks flushing. “So, um, if there’s nothing else I can do for you, I’m going to grab some sleep.”
“Oh, okay,” Storm nods.
I roll my eyes. Utterly clueless. “Yes.” Devious little plot hands rub together inside my head. “Are you free tonight?”
Dan looks from me to Storm. “Yes, I am.”
I catch the side “what the hell are you doing” dagger glare from Storm, but I ignore it. “Good. Storm was just saying that she’d love to go out to dinner with you.” Dan’s face lights up. Going out with Storm is exactly the something else Dan would like to do. “How about around seven?” I suggest. “That works for you, right, Storm?”
Her pretty head bobs up and down dumbly, looking like she may have swallowed her tongue.
Dan watches her with wariness. “Are you sure, Storm?”
It takes her a minute to pull her tongue back out to operational mode. “It’s perfect.” She even manages a tight smile.
“Okay. See you then.” He walks out, his pace picking up as I holler. “Can’t wait!”
I turn back to find Storm glaring at me. “You enjoyed tormenting that poor man, didn’t you?”
“Oh, I think he’s okay with a little torment if the end result is a date with you.”
“I have to work tonight though.”
“Nice try. Cain gave you the night off. Come on, what else you got?”
Storm’s shoulders sag. “This is a bad idea, Kacey.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well …” Storm sputters, struggling for a valid excuse. “Look at the last guy I brought home.” She gestures at the broken door.
“Storm, I don’t think you can compare Officer Dan to that strung out asshat of an ex-husband. They’re kind of on opposite ends of the spectrum. I’m not sure that guy last night was even human.” My brow quirks. “Do they need to make a ‘So I Married an Alien’ movie starring you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on, Kacey. Don’t be naïve. He’s a guy. He knows what I do for a living. There’s only one thing he’s interested in and it’s not my cooking.”
I shrug. “I don’t know about that. I might do you for more of that veal parmesan.”
Sweaty Door Guy breaks out into another coughing fit, harsh enough that I think he may bring up a lung. Storm’s hand flies to her mouth, trying not to laugh. She tosses a pillow at my head, but I duck, sending us into an explosion of titters as we scurry to her bedroom and close the door.
“So what are you gonna wear tonight?” I mock in a bubbly Valley girl voice.
She sighs. “I don’t know, Kace. What if he only wants me for … this?” her hands gesture to her body.
“Then he’s the biggest idiot on the face of the earth because you’re so much more than a pair of giant boobs and a pretty face.”
A tiny smile blossoms to dissolve her worry. “I hope you’re right, Kacey.”
“You also have a killer ass.”
She tosses another pillow at my head.
“All kidding aside, Storm. I see how he looks at you. Trust me, that’s not it.”
She worries her bottom lip as if she wants to believe me, but can’t.
“And if that’s all he’s looking for then we’ll set fire to his balls.”
“What?” Storm’s face twists in a mixture of shock and amusement.
I shrug. “What can I say, Storm? I’m into some weird shit.”
Storm’s head falls back as she howls with laughter. “You’re crazy but I love you, Kacey Cleary.” She shrieks, throwing her arms around my neck. I can only imagine what Sweaty Door Man is thinking right about now.
***
Trent shows up to my door at noon in his leather jacket. “Ready?”
“For what?” I ask, memories of the morning, of what he’s capable of doing with barely a touch, still fresh. Part of me wonders if he’s here to collect his side. That part is extremely excited.
He smirks, holding up a helmet. “Nice try.” Walking over, he grabs my hand and pulls me from my chair. “We made a deal and you lost.” A sinking feeling settles in the pit of my stomach as he leads me toward the door. “There’s a support group nearby. I figured I’d take you.”
Support group. That’s when my legs freeze. Trent turns around and studies my expression. By the way my insides are reacting, it can’t be a pretty one.
“You promised, Kacey,” he whispers softly, stepping forward to cup my elbows. “You don’t have to talk. Just listen. Please. It’ll be good for you, Kace.”
“So now you’re a computer geek and a shrink?” I bite my tongue, not meaning to be that harsh. Gritting my teeth against the urge to scream, I close my eyes. One … Two … Three … Four … I don’t know why I keep following my mom’s stupid advice. It never brings me relief. I guess it’s become more like a security blanket that I’ve dragged from my old life into my new. Useless, but comforting.
Trent waits patiently, his hand never leaving my elbow.
“Fine.” I hiss, shaking away from him. I grab my purse from the couch and stalk out the door. “But if they break out in a fucking round of Kumbaya, I’m so gone.”
***
The group therapy session is in a church basement, complete with ugly yellow walls and dark gray school-grade carpet. The smell of burnt coffee permeates the air. There’s a small table set up in the back with cups and tea biscuits. I’m not interested in any of that. I’m not interested in the group sitting in a circle in the center of the room, participating in idle chatter, or the middle-aged skinny man with faded blue jeans and feathered hair standing in the center.
None of it.
With a hand against my back, Trent gently prods my stiff body forward and I feel the air shift as I move closer. It thickens in my lungs, until I have to work to draw it in and push it out. When the man standing in the center looks up at me and smiles, the air gets even thicker. It’s a warm enough smile, but I don’t return it. I can’t. I don’t want to. I don’t know how.
“Welcome,” he says, pro-offering two empty chairs to our right.
“Thanks,” Trent murmurs behind me, shaking the guy’s hand as I somehow get my body to bend into the frame. I nudge it back a bit and stare straight ahead, distancing myself from the circle. So I’m not part of it. Exactly how I prefer things. And I avoid all eye contact. People think they’re allowed to talk to you and ask who died when you make eye contact.
Outside the circle is a sign that reads, “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—therapy session.” I sigh. Good ol’ P.T.S.D. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that term. The doctors in the hospital warned my aunt and uncle about it, saying they thought I suffered from it. Saying it would likely work itself out with time and counseling. I never understood how they believed that night could ever possibly work itself out of my thoughts, my memories, and my nightmares.
The man in the circle claps his hands. “Everyone, let’s get started. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Mark. I’m sharing my name, but there’s no need for you to share yours. Names are not important. What’s important is that you all know you’re not alone in the world with your grief, and that talking about it, when you’re ready, will help you heal.”
Heal. There’s another word I never understood as it related to the accident.
I can’t help but peer around the group now, careful that I don’t seem interested as I take in their faces. Luckily, all eyes are riveted to Mark, watching him with fascination, like he’s a god with curative powers. There’s a mix of people—old, young, female, male, the well-dressed, the disheveled. If it tells me anything, it’s that suffering knows no boundaries.
“I’ll share my story,” Mark begins, pulling his chair forward as he sits down. “Ten years ago I was driving home from work with my girlfriend. It was raining hard and we got T-boned in an intersection. Beth died in my arms before the ambulance came.”
Like a vacuous pull, my lungs constrict. I see, rather than feel, Trent’s hand on my knee, squeezing gently. I can’t feel anything.
Mark continues, but I struggle to focus on his words, my heart rate climbing like it’s on its way to Mount Everest. I fight the urge to stand and run, to leave Trent here. Let him listen to this horror. Let him see the kind of pain these people have experienced. I have enough of my own to deal with.
Maybe he gets some sick fascination with this shit.
I barely hear Mark as he talks about drugs and rehab, as words like “depression” and “suicide” float around. Mark’s so calm and collected as he lists the after affects. How? How is he so calm? How can he throw out his own personal tragedy in front of these people like he’s talking about the weather?
“… Tonya and I just celebrated our second wedding anniversary, but I still think about Beth every day. I still suffer through moments of sadness. But I’ve learned to cherish the happy memories. I’ve learned to move on. Beth would have wanted me to live my life.”
One by one, they go around the circle, airing their dirty laundry to all as if it takes no effort to talk about it. I pull short, hard breaths through the second tale—one of a man who lost his four year old son to a freak farming accident. By the fourth, the coils around my insides have stopped tightening. By the fifth, all the emotions that Trent has managed to coax out from hiding over the last few weeks have fled back as tragedy upon tragedy beats me over the head. All I can do to avoid reliving the pain of that night four years ago, right here in this church basement, is to bottle everything human inside of me up.
I’m dead inside.
Not everyone shares their stories, but most do. No one pressures me to speak. I don’t offer, even when Mark asks if anyone else wants to share and Trent squeezes my knee. I make not a sound. I stare straight forward, anesthetized.
I hear murmurs of “goodbye” and I stand. With robotic movements, I climb the stairs and walk out to the street.
“Hey,” Trent calls out from behind. I don’t answer. I don’t stop. I just start walking down the street toward my apartment.
“Hey! Wait up!” Trent jumps in front of me, forcing me to stop. “Look at me, Kacey!”
I follow his order and look up at him. “You’re scaring me, Kace. Please talk to me.”
“I’m scaring you?” The protective numbing coat I pulled over my body for the session falls away as rage suddenly fires through. “Why would you do that to me, Trent? Why? Why do I have to sit and listen to ten people recant their horror stories? How does that help?”
Trent’s hands push through his hair. “Calm down, Kace. I just thought—”
“What? What did you think? You don’t know the first thing about what I’ve gone through and you … what, think you can swoop in, give me an orgasm, and follow it up with a survivor’s group full of fucking cyborgs who talk about their supposed loved ones like everything’s alright?” I’m screaming on the side of the street now and I don’t care.
Trent’s hands move to touch my arms as he shushes me, glancing around. “You think that wasn’t hard for them, Kacey? Can’t you see the torture in their faces as they relive their stories?”
I’m not listening to him anymore. I throw his hands away with a shove and take a step back. “You think you can fix me? What am I to you, some pet project?”
He flinches as if I slapped him across the face and I grit my teeth. He has no right to be hurt. He made me sit through that. He hurt me. “Stay away from me.” I spin around and stalk down the sidewalk.
I don’t look back.
Trent doesn’t chase.
